Supposedly, it was once customary for fathers to quit their own pursuits upon the recognition they'd been surpassed by the talent of their children. Somewhere last year, my own would have had to abandon the bottle.
A few days back, my son mentioned that he would very much like to ride a train and generally lamented the lack of trains in his life.
"Do they still have those trains you shovel coal into?" he asks.
My wife and I took the train to Bucharest in the spring of 1994 to pick out wedding bands. The station was a few blocks from her flat.
"I love that sound," she said recently, as our new house here in Olympia is not far from the Amtrak stop.
"You've been on plenty of trains," I tell my son. "You were just too young to remember."
"Oh."
Running the other day, I found an old railroad spike in among the bindweed. The Chehalis Western Trail stands rehabilitated from an old rail line, which might explain the surprising diversity of flory. I imagine old rail workers and hobos alike, their busted leather boots dangling above the tracks over lunch, discarding apple cores and squash rinds, eastern flower seeds blown loose from their burlap coats. When it's wanted, bindweed is known as morning glory.
On the way to the train station, my daughter asks me what I had dreamed about. I tell her I can't remember.
I dreamt about breaking up this latest attempt at sobriety, barely a week old, having just one, and then watching that one explode like a baking soda volcano, washing over me at the base of the mountain. I pledged not to lose my temper.
The man taking tickets asked if there were any families. "We're a family of three," I said, and he took us to the last remaining booth with a table, on the east side of the train, so we arrive spirited by the sunrise. It was a rare kindness of immense proportion to my feelings lately that I have little interest left in the life ahead. I could feel the overeager earnestness in my voice as I thanked him, and didn't mind a goddamn bit.
Children shine as travel companions on trains, where their exuberant role play can be joined and faced fully without deadly distraction or consequence. My daughter drew pictures in between acting out elaborate war fantasies without so much as the benefit of her Kabuki mask. She took my camera and started snapping photos.
"I wish mom was here," my son said.
"She is. You were just too young to remember," I smile.
I take pictures of the least consequential moments of our day so that if I'm not around when they are older, they won't lament running through fountains or waiting for the bus or sitting in a train tunnel preparing for a battle with zombies. There are so many things I have done and would have forgotten, but for the presence of photographic evidence.
They spilled their root beer at the cafe.
"God, I just knew you would do that. Jesus christ."
So close, I thought. So close.
"Let's get some ice cream." I hate myself so much.
"I love Portland," he says.
"Me, too," she adds, and we race again across another street, counting out the seconds remaining on the crosswalk warning.
My daughter hates holding my hand, generally speaking, will do so when commanded, but pull away at the first moment possible. She is somewhat more willing here, during the crossings, having witnessed more than one car eager to gobble up a wayward pedestrian, monstrously.
In the beginning, she takes the crosswalk warnings too literally. I feel her stop in the middle of the intersection when the white changes to a flashing red hand.
"No, sweetie. Once you've started, you can't stop til you reach the other side."
Before we departed in the morning, she saw that both her brother and I were bringing backpacks. "I want a backpack," she demanded.
The only one we had was her brother's from last year, one nearly equal in size to her entire body. Throughout the day, whenever she seemed to tire from the many miles of our walking, I would ask her if she wanted me to carry it.
"No," she said, gently at first, then later on more forcefully, "No! And stop asking me that!"
She carried it the entire day.
I notice this as we are nearly back to the station, 10 hours after we had set out. I notice it because I feel her stop and sit down to catch her breath. I notice that she stops because even though we crossed the last street some time ago, she is still holding onto my hand.
"Do you want me to carry your backpack for you?" I tease.
Her response is a four-letter stare.
"I think this was the best day of my life," my son says. He has said this many times before, each time without the least hint of hyperbole. "We should do this again," he says.
The man taking our tickets to board the train back home asks if we are together. "Yes, we're a family of three." He gives us a booth with a table on the east side of the train so we don't arrive dispirited by the sunset.
We ride past miles and miles of things we've yet to do.
